


As you are

by catastrophage



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But in the End there's Fluff, Crossdressing, Enby Ivar, First Time, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, Genderqueer Character, Language, Modern AU, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Ivar, Other, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 03:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20001961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophage/pseuds/catastrophage
Summary: Ivar struggles with his identity, until one day he meets a man who will accept him the way he is.





	As you are

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using male pronouns for Ivar despite placing him in the nonbinary spectrum. Please know I'm aware neutral pronouns exist. I put some thought into this, but I think Ivar himself - in here - would not have a preference. I'm not going to sugarcoat it, Ivar struggles.
> 
> Why am I doing this? First and foremost because I think there's a lack of (canonically) enby characters. Ivar comes with a sexual handicap, which can be further explored in different ways - why not this. Another spark to this idea was Alex, who said that growing his hair long for the role confused him.
> 
> Long story short, I bring you a rough, unpleasant start, some serious confusion, and in the end a portion of warm fluff.  
> It was all written to the sound of Nirvana's _Come as you are_.

**As you are**

"Have you considered taking testosterone?"

Such a sweet voice, such an innocent tone. Ivar closed his eyes and parted his lips in a moan, while he could feel her thumb caressing the underside of his cock. "No... why...?"  
The girl was apparently holding back a chuckle. With her index finger she gave him a light flick, and he knew he was soft like pudding. He opened his eyes again, shoved a hand into her hair, loosening her ponytail with some harsh force. 

She was _just a whore_. Ubbe would have protested, but Ubbe _was not here_ and Ivar could not bring himself to see any more in her. _A filthy little whore._ Any woman of decency would not have pointed out the obvious, the humiliating, the...  
Soft cock.

"Testosterone?" he hissed. He had heard suggestions of viagra before, or popping some oxy before sex. Heck one girl even had straight forward suggested he'd get surgery for a penile pump, because _it was – obviously – not working right_. Just thinking back of that one clouded his mind with anger.  
The girl who was now tending to him squeaked from pain and tilted her head to relieve the pull on her scalp. "I'm sorry!"  
He rolled his eyes and let go of her, let her catch her breath. She reached up and opened her hairtie, so she could massage her aching roots. For a moment, neither said a word. Then she explained it.

"Your legs, your scars..."  
Ivar was about to hurt her again, but he just clenched his fist.  
"It's your bones, isn't it? They are brittle. Your voice is... a little higher. Your _problems_ could have a hormonal cause. It might not be your cock, but your testi-"

His flat hand landed on her cheek, his eyes glared daggers.  
"Are you a whore or a nurse?"  
She just sobbed, not saying a word anymore.  
"You better go now," he told her and she didn't need to hear it twice. She didn't even get dressed again; she just left his room with her clothes in her arms.

\---

She was gone and Ivar's mind was still racing. _Testosterone._

His eyes fell on the little medicine cabinet in a corner of the room. No, he would not take testosterone to enhance his... abilities. If anything he would _block_ what was left of it in his body. He had felt better about himself when puberty had just started, when his skin was still smooth and his beard soft. 

He had tried it: testosterone blockers and, for a short while, estrogen. But the result was not like expected, much less like he wanted it. He had broken off the estrogen when he realized his breast would grow. His _fucking breast_ would grow.  
Hastily, he touched his chest. It was still flat, just a little soft maybe. Hard to tell whether it was normal guy flab or... no, he was not a girl. He was _clearly_ not a girl. His brothers had the same chest, some harder from the muscles below, some softer – and all without hormonal _enhancement_.

But he wasn't a guy either. Or much rather – he was not _sure_ if he was a guy.

What made a guy a guy? Having a dick? His was... not very manly. It had remained soft even when the sweetest girls tried to give him a blowjob. He had grown uneasy about his private parts early in his youth. _Dysphoric_. Only with the help of sex toys he could get the confidence to engage with anyone else. He paid girls to touch what he thought was a gross piece of... mostly just skin. And half the time he didn't even let them touch it and just buried his face in their boobs.

What else made him a man... hormones? He snorted at his thought. The only difference he had felt on the blockers was a growing indifference towards porn. And mood swings. It was the mood swings why he discontinued his experiment, the crying fits that got out of control.  
Girl toys, boy toys, girl clothes, boy clothes. The world he grew up in was very strict about separating two seemingly different worlds. He had once tried on his mother's dress, put on his mother's makeup. He had enjoyed it. Did that make him a girl? Or did the _absence_ of such queer behavior on the remaining 364 days that year make him a boy?

He ruffled his hair in frustration. His long hair. He had started growing it out of laziness, but then he had enjoyed it too much to cut if off. He liked looking into the mirror and seeing his _slightly feminine_ reflection. With his beard shaved, he could pass as a tall, wide-shouldered woman. But at the same time the hair was not a determinant for his gender, was it? His brothers had long hair as well.

What to do. Add lipstick or tie the hair into a manbun? Grow the beard back?

His head was spinning.

"Godfather help me," he whispered towards the sinking sun behind his smog stained windows. "I don't know who I am."

\---

It was not his first crisis, but this time it hit him with force. He went shopping for skirts. Long, wide skirts that would hide his scarred legs. In a goth store he found a nice, black piece with tiers – not the ruffly kind, more on the neutral side. He added an airy top with a large raven print in the front, and a bunch of leather string bracelets.

He had never done his hair before in the way he was doing it now. With his tongue out, he partitioned it and braided some strands. Then he pinned them up in twin tails and let the ends fall open. Black eyeliner, dark lipstick. In a matter of days he had turned from a boy in hoodies into a scene beauty.

He knew he could do it. He could walk in _both worlds_ , he just... wasn't sure which one was his.

The biggest changes, however, lay underneath the shell of his appearance. If girls could not please him, and if he could not please girls, he considered trying to date a man instead. He swallowed nervously, when he was scrolling through dating platforms. He had imagined someone older, someone more experienced; someone who could help make him a real girl.  
But none of the men were his taste. Not a single one. They were all bulky and hairy and – well – manly. And on top of it most seemed to be either very rude, or extremely stupid.

The search history on his porn account went from _blowjobs_ and _pole dance_ to _twink first time_. He didn't just watch closely, but he also experimented. He wanted to know if it hurt before allowing anyone to fuck him. And dear gods it... _felt good_.  
He moaned in unison with the young guy on screen, whom he didn't even see anymore, because his head was pressed into his pillows, his hand moving the lubricated toy in his ass, which he imagined was a guy who...

A guy who'd just love him the way he was.

\---

Weeks passed. At home Ivar still wore hoodies and sweatpants, but at night he made up his girly self and spent hours at clubs and bars. He had tried the scene bars, but he struggled to identify with the local rainbow culture. He didn't know whether he was gay, bisexual or anything beyond the spectrum. If he identified as one thing and then dated the other, wouldn't it make him heterosexual? And _what the fuck_ did he even identify as?

Again his head spun. He quickly tried to focus on the coffee in front of him. This was not a gay bar, although the guys here looked refined. It was one of those hipster places that sold doughnuts all day round and provided newspapers to read, next to some comfortable couches.

"Is this seat taken?"

Ivar almost spilled his coffee. Usually people let him stay alone in his comfortable corner. Instead of looking at the stranger, he quickly scanned the bar. Were all other seats taken? Did he have no other choice?  
The place was near empty, no wonder at this time of the day.  
He parted his lips, but no sound came out. Then he looked up at the stranger and just nodded.

"It _is_ taken?"

Ivar thought he heard amusement in the stranger's voice, but when he looked into his face, he could just see a frown. He answered it with a scowl. "It is not, help yourself."  
The stranger shrugged and took one of the armchairs. He placed his coffee next to Ivar's.  
He could see the same tiny sprinkles of cinnamon floating on the surface. Was this a coincidence?  
Was it a sign?

Ivar pulled out his phone. At first he acted like he was writing with someone. He suddenly felt vulnerable as what seemed to be a cross-dressing guy all alone in a café at night. But eventually he opened a game to distract himself. He glanced up while waiting for the app to load.

The stranger was watching him.  
_Shit,_ Ivar thought. But he didn't let his insecurity show. He looked down just for a second, collecting himself. Then he spoke. "Something about their cinnamon spice is addictive."  
Now that they were speaking to each other, Ivar could allow himself to look at the other man as well. He was handsome. He was a little older than himself, but apparently in a good shape. Dreamy blue eyes and sensual lips. He was... intriguing. And his expression changed from a casual frown to confusion.  
The stranger looked down, as if only now realizing they had ordered the same flavored coffee.

Ivar chuckled and now – finally – he could see the corner of the other's lips twitch in amusement.  
"My name is Ivar," he introduced himself to the stranger, who answered with a nod, and a quietly mumbled "Heahmund."

\---

At first they didn't talk at all. They went their ways and returned the next night, and sat at the same table again. They drank their cinnamon spice coffee, Heahmund would write something on his phone, while Ivar played games or... just watched him.  
And sometimes he caught Heahmund watching him back.

"What are you looking at?" Ivar once asked, a slight sneer in his voice, but a smile on his lips. He felt confident that day. He had crossed his legs under his skirt and he wore his hair open, soft curls framing his face. His raven top had made space for a band shirt, and that was what Heahmund was pointing out. "Nirvana. Fashion statement or your taste in music?"

"Both," Ivar answered truthfully. And then the ice was broken and they started talking music. It turned out Heahmund was into classic rock, but he also liked his share of Nirvana songs.  
"You're not drugging yourself up, are you?" Heahmund asked when the initial conversation faded out.  
Ivar tilted his head. He was not. He may have experimented with something once or twice, but he was not a regular consumer. He disliked the loss of control that came with the consumption of drugs. But what did it even matter?  
"Why would you care?"

Heahmund shrugged. "I enjoy our coffee dates."  
"I'm not," Ivar replied. "...not using any drugs. And I enjoy them, too."

\---

They would still meet every night that week. Sometimes they talked. Ivar learned about Heahmund's job, and the older listened to Ivar's ramblings about his family.  
And then, one night Heahmund chose to sit on the couch next to Ivar.

Ivar's chest tingled from the sudden closeness. He thought he could feel his own heartbeat. "You're the one," he whispered, barely audible. Heahmund was perfect. He was older, more experienced, but he was also calm and friendly, in his own quiet ways. He had a good taste in music, and he was admittedly also easy on the eye. How many nights had passed since Ivar had wished to meet someone just like him?

He turned around, to see Heahmund had also turned towards him. Ivar's hand on the backrest touched Heahmund's. His first impulse was to pull away, but he knew better. This was his one chance, his only chance. He entwined their fingers, and Heahmund let it happen.  
For a moment neither said anything. Neither moved. Ivar felt nearly hypnotized by Heahmund's lips. He wondered if he could kiss him, if he would allow it.

"I'm not a girl," Ivar said under his breath.  
"I know," Heahmund replied calmly.  
Again, they just looked at each other in silence. Ivar thought he felt a brief tugging at his hand, as if Heahmund wanted to encourage him... to go on.

"I'm not... a guy either I think," Ivar finally confessed. He now could feel his heart beat up against his throat. His neck felt sweaty all of a sudden, and he wanted to pull away out of shame. But Heahmund didn't release his hand. He didn't look away when he answered him.  
"Okay."

 _Just okay?_ All the confusion Ivar was feeling, all the struggles he had gone through in his life. He wasn't sure what he expected. Maybe a sound of surprise, a wide array of questions. What did he mean with being neither? What would he do about it? Could he have sex? Would he have surgery?  
He had half-expected Heahmund to push him away, to leave him be. He was weird after all, confused about his own identity and...

Heahmund's lips met his. Their hands were still locked, and he pulled him closer. The kiss tasted like coffee, with a hint of cinnamon.  
Ivar whimpered. This was it what he had been searching all along. Unconditional acceptance.

"I don't know who I am," Ivar said once they broke apart. His voice was high from anxiety and he almost sounded accusing, as if Heahmund could not just kiss him before he found his identity.  
Heahmund lead the younger's hand to his mouth and kissed it, not like a servant would do, but slow and affectionate. "You are Ivar," he said in his deep, husky voice. "You are a beautiful human, and an amazing person. I want nothing more than to be with you."

\---

Ivar moaned. They were in his bedroom, and he could feel Heahmunds hand reach around him and touch his cock. Not only was he careful and gentle with him, he also didn't hesitate for a second. He didn't stop to wonder, he didn't point out the obvious. He just caressed him, let his fingers wander and kissed his shoulders tenderly.  
Just once he had stopped, but not to complain or mock him. When they were undressed and exploring each other's bodies, he whispered in his ear: "Tell me what you like."

"I like this," Ivar breathed. And on a second thought, he added: "Don't let it fool you."  
Heahmund didn't let his softness fool him. He went down on him and kissed a trail from his chest, all the way to the underside of his cock, until his tongue found a spot that made Ivar whimper and shiver and beg him for more.

"Fuck me like I'm your girl," Ivar pleaded. Heahmund came back up and caught his lips with his own. He bit him softly, then let go of him and looked into his eyes. "I'd rather not," he said quietly. "Unless that's what you need. But at the café you said you're not a girl, so I don't want to fuck you like a girl – or whatever else you think you're not. _I want you as you are, Ivar._ "

Ivar had to close his eyes to blink away a tear or two. And for once it was not because he was hurt or angry. Those were tears of happiness. "Alright," he whispered. "Just fuck me."  
And Heahmund did, until they both lay spent on the bed, their sweaty bodies apart in the heat of the room, but their fingers, once again, entwined.


End file.
